


once bitten and twice shy

by pinkcords



Series: once bitten and twice shy [1]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Christmas, Enemies to Lovers, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Oral Sex, Pining, Smut, mild homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-26
Updated: 2019-12-26
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:40:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21773842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinkcords/pseuds/pinkcords
Summary: This time as his stomach rolls, there’s no doubt about it. He’s going to vomit. And if he does, it’ll be on Louis’ shoes, a nice little parting gift to go with the embarrassment he’s caused the both of them. “I’m gonna throw up,” he says just as Louis turns to look at him, blue eyes swimming with shock and confusion, and asks, “Is that true?”Or, in a rush of bravery only senior year can bring, Harry confesses his feelings in a letter to his neighbor and best friend, Louis, only for the entire school to hear it and laugh him out of their small town in Wisconsin. Ten years later, Harry's a successful lawyer at Columbia Records, coming home for Christmas for the first time since he departed for college. He plans to work his way through the trip, eat his mom's cooking, and avoid everyone from his past for as long as possible. The only problem is best laid plans hardly ever go as intended.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson
Series: once bitten and twice shy [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1622581
Comments: 83
Kudos: 630
Collections: 1D Christmas Fest





	once bitten and twice shy

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first foray into the 1D fandom as a last minute addition to the Christmas Fest! Loosely based off Just Friends for the general premise, but otherwise written to fit the characters and the mood I was after. I hope you enjoy it!
> 
> Thank you to Adri (@angelichl) who read through this and provided the most lovely feedback even though I am a total stranger to her!

2009

_Louis -_

_It’s almost the big day! I can’t believe we’re about to graduate and head off to college. It really feels like you just moved in next door and I saw you skateboarding in your driveway and wanted to have a go myself. Remember I fell on my ass the second my foot touched the board? For some reason, you decided you wanted to be my friend anyway. You laughed in my face, but helped me up with the kindest eyes I’ve ever seen. I guess in a way I chose you back too._

_The truth is, I’ve let day after day go by without telling you something. I’m not sure I’ll ever have the courage to tell you these words face to face, so I hope writing them down is an okay alternative. You’ve always been such a good friend to me, my confidant and greatest supporter, a defender when I’ve needed one, but there’s a part of me that’s always hoped we could have more. Before we leave, before you make it in the big leagues and leave us all behind, I just need you to know how I feel about you. I just needed to put it out into the universe and let a little hope grow in my chest that there’s even a slim chance you might feel the same._

_When you get a chance to read this, come find me. You always know where to find me._

_All my love,_

_H_

With a lick to the envelope, Harry presses his thumb along the seal and holds the handwritten letter with shaking hands. He’s not even left the safety of his bedroom yet and he can already feel his stomach roiling with nerves. Drawing in a deep, calming breath, he looks out the window of his bedroom and sees the Tomlinson’s house lit up, a low bass thumping loud enough to shake the whole neighborhood. Louis’ family is conveniently out of town until the end of the week on a Disney vacation which has opened the residence for a little post finals, pre graduation debauchery. Harry would know - he’d spent the entire afternoon moving furniture out of the way and bringing in booze through the backyard under Louis’ instruction. 

But it’s now or never, really. That’s the advice that both Niall and Liam had given him when he’d whined just a day ago about Louis going away to college, Louis making new friends, Louis never seeing him again, Louis _hooking up with people_ . This is his chance to _do_ something about it and he isn’t about to chicken out now, raucous party and one too many people he doesn’t enjoy (because Harry hates no one) be damned. 

When he lets himself into the Tomlinson’s house, his first thought is that he has no idea how he’s going to find Louis. He sees a throng of people comprised mostly of the football team (Louis’ teammates, though Harry has never considered Louis _one of them_ ), a dusting of cheerleaders, and a halo of the most popular students among them, a unified wall against outsiders. Other classmates that he’s known for years, but usually avoids, are peppered here and there, either already engaged in drunk conversation or in a drunk makeout. 

Being in the drama club, writing his own music, regularly attending poetry readings and art shows, and having skipped not one, but _two,_ grades had opened Harry up to a world of teasing from the jocks and self proclaimed elite of high school. It had only gotten worse when they’d entered junior year, his unique sense of style and an accidental outing inviting a new onslaught of criticism, his classmates assigning him any scathing label they could think of. He felt incredibly lucky to have Niall and Liam, and especially Louis, who had always been kind to him and had never pushed or asked him for anything - to be less himself or to explain who he was. They had simply just always had his back. Not that Harry needed defending, but from time to time, it was nice to feel a little less alone, accepted by those he cared about and having people in his corner that cared about him in return. Nothing anyone said really bothered him anymore, anyway - he’d heard it all before and the only friends he needed were the ones calling to him from the kitchen.

“H! Finally! You’re doing it?” Niall asks, his voice enthusiastic and a shade too loud. Harry momentarily wonders how much alcohol he’s had already.

He pats his back pocket where the envelope is safely tucked. “I’m doing it. Have you seen Louis?”

“He went upstairs a while ago. Think Lottie was facetiming him and trying to make him feel guilty for not going on the family holiday,” Liam answers, holding out a red cup full of some sort of strong alcohol mix. “You look like you’re gonna need it, mate.”

Harry takes the cup and a shallow sip, cringing as he swallows and feels it burn the whole way down. It doesn’t stop him, though, and he swallows the next half in one go, hoping the mix will be nothing but pure liquid courage. “Thanks. I’ll see you on the other side.” 

Liam and Niall both nod gravely at him, as if sending him off to war, and give him a salute.

As loud as the party is downstairs, just up the stairs is a muted sort of quiet, as though he’s just submerged his head underwater. He’s walked this hall thousands of times, could probably find his way to Louis’ room with his eyes closed. The door is open just a crack, a slice of soft light filtering out on the carpet, and Harry raps his knuckles on the frame, toeing it open another inch or two with his boot. 

“Lou?”

Louis looks up from the end of his bed, the call seemingly ended as he thumbs through something on his phone, and Harry guesses he’s gotten stuck playing Candy Crush or scrolling through Instagram. His face changes to the smile that Harry likes to think is reserved just for him, eyes crinkling warmly at the corners, but maybe that’s entirely wishful thinking. “There you are! I thought you were coming like an hour ago?”

Harry coughs awkwardly, nodding and then shrugging one shoulder up by his ear, stalling for time in the middle of the doorway. “I was finishing something. I’m here now, though, yeah?”

“‘course. It’s wild down there, innit? Came up here to talk to Lotts and just… stayed,” he says, patting the spot beside him on the bed, still unmade. Harry hesitates, reminds himself that this is _Louis_ , that regardless of what happens he’ll always _be_ Louis, and then crosses the room to sit beside him. “What were you finishing?”

Harry inhales a sharp breath and wills himself to be brave. “Something for you actually. You don’t have to look at it now, but just… yeah. Later.” 

His smile comes shakily, reaching to his back pocket for the envelope. Instead, his fingers just drag on the denim of his jeans and his heart skips to an immediate stop. When his eyes flicker to Louis’ face, he’s looking at him quizzically, but he feels frozen to the spot as a loud cacophony of laughter rises up the stairs and curls into the room. It’s so loud it carries over the music.

“What the fuck?” Louis whispers, but it’s not directed at Harry’s lack of procurement, but the stream of laughter that bubbles and bursts as someone yells in between.

They both wander out into the hallway and towards the top of the stairs and it’s only then that Harry can hear the words, _his words_ , being read aloud to the party downstairs. “ _Oh Louis, I just need you to know how I feel about you_ .” Laughter. “ _Oh Louis, let a little hope grow in my heart that there’s even a slim chance you might feel the same.”_ Cackling.

Even as just seconds pass, it feels like everything is in slow motion. The swivel of his head to look at Louis and then back down the stairs could have taken years and he wouldn’t have been surprised. This time as his stomach rolls, there’s no doubt about it. He’s going to vomit. And if he does, it’ll be on Louis’ shoes, a nice little parting gift to go with the embarrassment he’s caused the both of them. “I’m gonna throw up,” he says just as Louis turns to look at him, blue eyes swimming with shock and confusion, and asks, “Is that true?”

Harry’s thankful he’d barely had a sip of the drink Liam handed him, ditching it on a side table in the hall and taking the stairs as quickly as his legs can carry him. At this point, he’s surprised he hasn’t caught his boot on the carpet runner and sent himself flying. He snatches the letter straight out of - Tim? Bryce? - _someone’s_ hand, his face flaming a thousand degrees and his heart ready to rocket from his chest. There isn’t a moment he can recall in recent years that he’s ever been so humiliated and it’s with that thought the tears burn at the corners of his eyes, clouding his vision. 

“Harry, wait!”

For a split second, hope _does_ bloom in his chest that it’s Louis. But it’s just Niall shouldering his way through the crowd that’s gathered, everyone staring, staring, _staring_ , and the echo of laughter mocking him at every turn. Their eyes catch for a second, just long enough for Harry to see the expression of sympathy, and then he’s gone, rushing through the front door that he’d only just stepped past fifteen minutes ago. Of all the ways he’d picture tonight going, this was not it.

The thunder of footsteps down the stairs follows him, but he can’t stop, can’t see one more of their faces, either laughing or looking on at him with secondhand embarrassment. Even when Louis’ voice chases him down the front path, Harry can’t, _won’t_ stop, doesn’t hear a thing he says, just keeps going until he can slam himself back behind his bedroom door.

x

2019

When Harry glances at the time on his computer, he really hopes he’s going blind from reading through recording contracts all day. He blinks, rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands, and looks again, realizing no, he’s truly about to miss his flight home if he doesn’t get his ass out the door immediately. There may be flights to major cities around the country every hour, but there’s only one nonstop to Green Bay and an hour long drive to his little podunk town of Sturgeon Bay, Wisconsin waiting on the other side. 

He jumps up, disconnecting his laptop and trying to stuff as much into his messenger bag as humanly possible to take with him. His assistant, Jenny, had nagged him all day long about not working on his holiday break, but truth be told, that’s all Harry plans on doing. It’ll be all he has to get him through the Christmas holiday in his tiny, burned out hometown while he avoids any and all run ins with ghosts from his past.

Carry on in hand, he whisks himself out of his office, slamming the door behind himself and rattling the plaque neatly attached to it: _Harry Styles, General Counsel, Columbia Records._ He’s not even made it to the elevator lobby and he already feels like he’s shedding one life to step into another, one too tight and too uncomfortable.

New York City heaves around him the entire way to JFK, last minute shoppers dashing in and out of store fronts, taxis cutting off limousines in a flurry of horns, the streets a perpetual wet, slushy mess as winter races in. But this is home. Harry loves that, as the old cliche goes, she never lays down to sleep, that there’s always a light on, a heartbeat just under the surface. 

Moving to New York had changed his life. From the first moment he’d stepped into NYU’s residence halls, no one had questioned where he’d gotten his floral shirt from, why he wore a bandana in his hair, made fun of his ever changing nail color or his gold boots. His roommate had just looked up at him, stoned, and said, “Sick shoes, dude.” If Sturgeon Bay was a collapsing box under the weight of rain surrounding him, New York City was just pure, unregulated acceptance on a neverending plane.

The pain of the last weeks in Wisconsin had stuck with him the rest of the summer and through much of the first semester of college. He’d avoided Louis at every turn, rushing out of school during the last few days before he could be caught and begging his mom to get crafty with her explanations for his absence when Louis would come knocking. Harry knew that the radio silence between them was partially (or well, _all_ ) his fault, but there was a part of him that would stare out his dorm room window those first few weeks, chin resting on his forearm, wishing, selfishly, that Louis had tried harder, that he’d meant more to him than a few measly attempts at getting in contact with him. Harry knew he was being unfair - he didn’t even know what he would do or say if he had come face to face with Louis once again.

And then autumn turned to winter and Harry had stayed in New York, his mom and Gemma coming to visit through the Christmas holiday for a change of scenery. His freshman year was over in a blink, a blur of declaring his major and too much weed and random hookups at basement parties as he tried desperately to get Louis out of his system. One year turned into two and then four and he’d grown into himself and his sexuality in ways he’d never allowed himself to dream of back home. He’d traveled around Europe the summer after graduation with a fling he’d met in Italy that had blue eyes that were familiar, but not quite right, and had ended up back with his old girl Manhattan in the end. He’d buried himself in the library under textbooks as a first year law student, the scar tissue of heartbreak fresh with the wave of nostalgia, yet unrelated to his companion he’d let down softly as he’d returned to New York. Looking back now, he’s a bit certain he blacked out for the majority of law school in an exhausted fever dream, referring to those days not at all fondly as the _lost years_. 

But after a decade in the city, not once making a reappearance in Sturgeon Bay for one excuse or another, always ready on the tip of his tongue, New York City feels like all he knows. The very thought of returning sets his nerves aflame and his anxiety climbing, the idea of making himself small enough to fit those old hometown assumptions stifling. Even at the gate, ready to board, his head swivels as if mapping out an escape route, desperate to dart out of the emergency exit and keep running like he did ten years ago.

x

There’s a thousand people crammed into his childhood home that somehow seems smaller and more dated than it did a decade ago. 90s decor that was passable during his years in high school is now just downright _old_ and _aged_ , contributing to the claustrophobia of being _here_ , in _Sturgeon Bay_. It’s part of the reason he can feel a bead of sweat rolling down his spine beneath the sheer Saint Laurent shirt he’s wearing, gaining raised eyebrows and flirty middle-aged compliments from his mother’s friends. He feels a bit on display, a big time lawyer from the city coming home, like his success is unfathomable to anyone in the room, that anything bigger exists beyond this tiny town.

“You’ve grown so handsome, Harry!” 

He turns when he hears the voice, coming face to face with Jay Deakin. There’s a part of him that’s always known his mom never stopped being friends with Jay just because of his falling out with Louis, but it still rocks him to see her there, right in front of him, beautiful as ever. She folds him into a hug just as his mind begins to panic, wondering if Louis is home for the holiday too and if so, how to successfully avoid him the rest of the week. 

Before he has the chance to spiral further, there’s a frigid burst of air that gusts in through the front door, bringing in a dusting of snow off the front step and, as fate would have it, Louis Tomlinson.

Harry feels like the air has been punched out of his lungs with a fist through his back, the second time in under a minute. He catches Louis’ eye for a split second as he shuffles his fringe to get the snowflakes to fall from his hair. If he recognizes Harry at all, it doesn’t show on his face, and in the next moment, he’s looking away as Harry is planning his getaway, greeting a few of the ladies gathered near and kissing Anne on the cheek with a cheerful, “Merry Christmas!”

Harry quickly turns his back to the door. “It’s so lovely to see you, Jay. I’ll be right back. Excuse me,” he says to Jay as he untangles from her embrace. The expression on her face tells him his polite departure is seen for exactly what it is - a conveniently timed getaway. 

The kitchen is blissfully void of a crowd, just one older couple warming up some sort of dip in the oven. Harry smiles at them and quickly hurries to his coat that he left draped over one of the kitchen chairs, pulling it on in a rush and swiping a half full bottle of cabernet on his way towards the sliding door to the deck. As of thirty seconds ago, he is totally and officially not drunk enough nor adequately prepared for this evening and where it is headed. His hope is that he can hide out on the deck long enough to steer clear of Louis altogether, his fingers crossed around the neck of the bottle with hope that he was just dropping off a gift or an appetizer for the party. 

Unfortunately, the flood lights in the backyard keep flicking on each time he moves to sip from the wine, illuminating his figure to anyone peering out from the family room where the party continues on without him. If anyone is looking for him, he’ll surely be found, and that’s exactly what happens not even five minutes later, the door squeaking on its track as someone ( _someone_ \- who is he kidding?) steps out to join him. Harry will _not_ be the one to turn around, his breath coming in short puffs of stress in front of his face, hot with cabernet.

“Thought that was you.”

Harry closes his eyes, knuckles turning white around the bottle, and counts to three before he gives a half turn, hip leaning into the deck railing. “Yeah, it’s me. In the flesh.”

For all the ways Harry envisioned seeing Louis again (and really, they were fantasies, because he _never_ thought he’d see Louis again), he did not expect his heart to twist into a tornado large enough to sweep him up and send him time traveling back to age eighteen. Louis’ got more facial hair and he’s filled out nicely, muscular even where his winter jacket tries to obscure it, but his eyes are just as Harry remembers: blue like the shadows that blanket the snow, long, fine eyelashes framing them, kind and open and expressive when he smiles, wry. A decade, a century; it apparently doesn’t matter to Harry. His skin heats under his long, expensive coat and he has to force his tongue to untie long enough to force himself to say something clever. Louis beats him to it.

“Funny that. Could’ve sworn you were a ghost,” he chuckles, shutting the slider behind him and approaching to stand much too close, shoulder to shoulder. He gives the wine bottle a look, one eyebrow arching, half curious, half knowing. Harry hugs it to himself, defensive as he looks back out into the darkness of the backyard, unable to see much beyond the sparse tree line. “When was the last time you were home?”

Harry doesn’t want to answer that question. “A while ago. A _long_ while ago.”

Louis hums his assent and reaches across to steal the bottle of cabernet, tipping it straight to his mouth to swallow a mouthful. “Like not since we graduated _a while ago_? Your mom and I talk, you know.”

Harry looks affronted and thinks, _traitor_ . Both of them. If he feels a little warm zip knowing Louis talks about him, thinks about him, then he blames the wine. “Nothing to come back for,” he says in the end, hating the way that _nothing_ includes Louis in that statement. He stands straight to tuck his hands into his coat pockets. “Everything I need is in New York.”

“Ah, New York. Right. A big city man now,” Louis answers, no bite in his voice. 

Harry wants to be offended, to take it personally, but he knows Louis, knows his heart, and that despite how their friendship ended, he’s only teasing him in that amiable, affectionate way, unique to him and him alone.

Louis ends up passing the wine back to him and it brings Harry out of his own head once again, distraction threatening to take over as their breaths mix and float off into the winter air. “I really didn’t expect you to be here tonight. Or at all. Didn’t think I’d see anyone from school, actually,” he says.

“Yeah, well. Some things never change, you know what I mean? Or leave,” Louis answers, turning away with… is he sheepish? Bashful? No, when he really examines the way Louis looks away from him, back inside the house, beyond the party, anywhere but Harry, he realizes it’s embarrassment.

Confused, he doesn’t have a chance to press Louis for further explanation. As soon as he draws in a breath to ask, Louis drops a hand to his shoulder with a friendly squeeze. 

“You look good, Harry. Happy,” he says, his smile genuine, just wide enough that the crinkles start to appear near his eyes. “I’ll see you around. Merry Christmas.”

He’s gone before Harry can tell him not to, ducking inside past the sliding door and immediately being enveloped into conversation by one of their neighbors. Harry watches him through the glass for a moment, still captivated the way he was years ago by Louis’ charisma, the way he has no problem charming the room around him. Guests gather, slowly drifting to the him one at a time, hanging on to his every word, as though they’re all moths drawn to a flame. 

Harry remembers when he was a moth and feels the pull in his chest that tells him he still is.

x

It’s long after the party has died, the last of the guests having dwindled hours ago, when Harry finds himself lying on his back in his childhood bed, staring at the ceiling. His mind is still on the short conversation he’d shared with Louis, trying to parse out if what he’s feeling is melancholy over finally getting closure or confusion because it wasn’t closure at all. 

The bed is too small, his feet hanging off the edge, and his skin itches as the room heats too fast, the radiators clicking rhythmically along the baseboards. He sighs heavily, resigning himself to a sleepless night if he can’t manage to shut off his brain long enough to just close his eyes. 

Eventually, he gets up to wander to the window, eyes catching on the snowflakes that are just beginning to fall, gently landing and blending into the last few week’s snowfall. His gaze settles on the Tomlinson’s house, decorated for the holidays with a wreath and candle in each window, warm and festive, but otherwise dark at this hour. Once again, he feels like he’s eighteen, wistfully longing after his neighbor and best friend, wondering if he’s also awake in his childhood home, if he also feels overwhelmed with nostalgia or if it’s just a side effect of Harry avoiding this part of his life for the last ten years. 

It’s with that thought that he turns to pull on an old Green Bay hoodie and a pair of joggers. The house creaks as he creeps down the hall, though he’s careful to avoid the stubborn step that always groans on his way down the stairs. It’s colder outside than he’s used to, even with his down parka and beanie, but it’s welcome given how screaming hot his bedroom and the rest of the house seems to be. 

He doesn’t know where he’s heading until he’s already halfway there, his feet carrying him out of muscle memory. Just down the street, a mediocre playground is partially covered and consumed by snow, but Harry trudges through even as his feet immediately succumb and freeze in his sneakers. He dusts off one of the swings and sits, pulling his hands inside his sleeves so that when he wraps his fingers around the chains, the cold doesn’t bite as bad. For a whole minute, he just holds on and blows his breath into rings in the frigid air.

It’s less about having a go on the swings as it is about what this place means to him. Ages ago, when their backyards felt stale or he’d wanted to get away from his mom’s watchful eyes, he’d drag Louis down to just sit on the swings. Side by side, they’d sway back and forth, talking about everything and nothing all at once. It was there that Louis had admitted, his voice quiet and wistful, he wanted to go to college to be a teacher, that he wanted to maybe move to California and was looking at schools there to apply. It was also where Harry had cried into his shoulder, deep, soul racking sobs, when Craig Sullivan had outed him to their entire class. Louis had held him, reassured him that there was nothing wrong with him, that he had nothing to be ashamed of and it didn’t change anything about their friendship. And not so coincidentally, it was also the place that Harry knew in his heart of hearts he was in love with Louis, that he’d always been in love with Louis. 

Now a few years off thirty, a grown man sitting in the ice cold on a swing set, thinking about the _same_ man he’s always thought about, Harry thinks he always _will_ _be_ in love with Louis. Despite how certain he was to be over the past, over _Louis_ , his old self left behind and never to be heard from again, their interaction earlier in the evening proved the opposite. A book he thought he slammed shut with finality has been flung open again and Harry finds himself grateful that maybe not _all_ bridges have burned, that maybe he has a chance to set right what he ran away from in fear the last time.

Just like earlier in the evening, watching Louis through the glass spidered with ice crystals, Harry feels like a magnet, a game of time before he seeks Louis out on his own.

x

It’s just gone noon the next day when Harry finds himself on the Tomlinson’s doorstep, shivering as he waits for someone to answer the door. He expects Louis’ mom, one of his siblings home for Christmas, but it’s just Louis on the other side when the door finally swings open, his hair soft like he’s just washed it, in a yellow jumper that makes his expression of surprise easier to swallow. It should be expected by now, but Harry stalls half a second to just look at him until he remembers to speak.

“Hi,” he breathes. 

Louis’ eyes turn curious, his head tilting. “Hi…” he says slowly.

“I was just about to head into town. See about getting a decent cup of coffee. Maybe a croissant. Did you want to go?” Harry asks, scuffing a foot along the front step over a patch of ice.

Harry’s expecting him to say no, that he’s got other plans, but Louis nods his head with no hesitation. “Let me grab my coat.”

The door closes, but only briefly, until Louis reappears outside with him, tucked into a parka that nearly swallows him, but is much more practical than the long coat that Harry’s got on. He’d tossed his suitcase inside out to find an appropriate outfit and had decided for style over function, head to toe, for this… non date he’s attempting to take Louis on. 

His obvious shivering, hands jammed into his pockets and fisted for warmth, makes Louis laugh. “Might be warm enough for New York, buddy. But not here,” he chuckles. “You really been gone that long?”

Harry rolls his eyes and turns to head back down the front path to the Range Rover he’d rented in Green Bay to serve him for the week. He doesn’t dignify Louis’ teasing with a response, but he does open the passenger side door for him. 

“Nice ride,” Louis comments as he steps inside, relaxing into the seat as a means of burrowing further into his parka.

“Figured it would handle the snow.” Harry shrugs, catching Louis’ expression from the corner of his eye as he hums in response. Louis thinks he’s showing off. And maybe he is, just a _bit._ He had passed by the Hondas and Toyotas on the lot and had asked specifically for a luxury vehicle. Sue him. 

The ride into town isn’t far, but it’s quiet enough that Harry can feel the tension hovering over them like a rain cloud, even with the radio a soft murmur in the background. Just as he’s beginning to regret his decision to invite Louis with him, _Dreams_ comes on the station and Louis doesn’t hesitate before reaching forward to turn it up. 

“Oh _man_. Remember the summer we were obsessed with this song?” he laughs, his head tilting back against the seat as he rolls his head to look at Harry. “On repeat. All summer.” 

Harry can’t help but crack a smile when Louis air drums into the space in front of him, hitting each beat with the song. When he starts to sing, it’s at the same time as Louis, almost as loud as that summer in 2007. “Oh, thunder only happens when it’s raining. Players only love you when they’re playing.” 

He makes the mistake of looking over at Louis, belting every word to the song just as he used to, and if he had any doubt about his reawakened feelings, he doesn’t now, his whole body warm with affection that had been lying dormant.

By the time Harry is pulling through the slush at the side of Main Street, he’s certain anyone passing by on the street can hear Fleetwood Mac through the rolled up windows, the volume having increased steadily through the song. The car falls silent again as he kills the ignition, but they’ve both got sore cheeks from smiling, laughing, singing. When he catches Louis’ eye, they just sit there grinning at each other for a full thirty seconds. 

Eventually, Louis breaks the reverie and gets out of the car. “Alright, Harold. Where are we getting coffee?”

“Starbucks?” Harry suggests, yanking his coat closed around him. 

Louis stops in his tracks, right in the middle of the frozen mess, and looks at him deadpan. “Don’t you get enough of that shit in New York? C’mon, we’ll go to Kick.”

Harry doesn’t remember any place called Kick in Sturgeon Bay, but Louis leads them to a sweet little coffee shop, complete with a chalkboard menu and a pastry counter. He wonders briefly how Louis knew this place was here, but figures he must have discovered it on a previous visit home. In fact, just before he steps inside, he realizes there’s a lot of places on the street that have popped up that he doesn’t recognize.

They order hot lattes, Louis’ a peppermint mocha, and Harry gets the croissant he mentioned earlier, warmed up and served with a small packet of strawberry jam. They choose a tiny table by the window and Harry holds his latte with both hands, more for warmth as he waits for the coffee to cool down to an acceptable temperature. 

“So. How long are you in town for?” Harry asks him as he tries to blow through the small hole in the lid.

Louis chuckles, popping the lid off his own coffee to let it cool. “I’m not.”

“What do you mean?” Harry looks across at him, puzzled, pausing with the cup halfway to his lips.

“I live here, Harry,” he answers, voice steady. “I’ve _always_ lived here.”

Harry furrows his eyebrows, shaking his head in confusion as he sets his cup down without ever taking a sip. “But what about California? You applied to all those schools. You wanted to go to UCLA!”

Louis shrugs and then leans onto his forearms on the table, shoulders tight. “It’s a long story.”

“I’ve got time,” Harry says almost immediately. And it’s true. Aside from Sturgeon Bay being painfully void of anything to do in the winter, there’s nowhere else Harry would rather be.

Louis shakes his head, though, and finally takes a sip of his mocha. “Another time, maybe.” He rolls his shoulders back and looks back at Harry. “I want to hear about New York. You went to law school?”

Harry picks up his cup again as he nods, finally taking a sip of the latte and burning his tongue anyway. “I did, yeah. I work for Columbia now. Columbia Records. Specialize in contracts.”

“Bet you meet loads of people,” Louis says, picking up his own cup and taking a measured, careful sip.

Harry nods. “Yeah, I’ve met pretty much everyone on the label at least once. If it’s not Adele, it’s Hozier or John Mayer. Haven’t met Beyonce yet, though.”

“Beyonce,” Louis muses.

“I’m name dropping, aren’t I?” Harry asks, suddenly sheepish. But why shouldn’t he? He’s worked hard all his life to get to the point he’s at now, comfortable with himself personally and professionally. 

Louis chuckles, shrugging his shoulders. “I asked. It’s alright.”

They fall quiet again after that, both holding onto their respective cups of coffee and ruminating on new information, the intricacies of their lives and what they’ve missed. Harry can’t think of anything to say that doesn’t feel like prying, so he asks, “You know, Starbucks steams their milk to the perfect drinking temperature. Wouldn’t have scalded my mouth if we’d just gone there.” 

Louis rolls his eyes, pushing his cup forward. “Oh, I’m sorry we don’t do it properly here. Do you want mine, little baby? It’s cooled off properly, you know, because I took the lid off instead of trying to blow through the hole like a tit.”

“ _No_. God,” Harry scoffs, sipping from his own cup, stubborn.

Louis smiles, the one that spreads across his face with amusement, usually at the expense of Harry. There’s a beat where he doesn’t speak and Harry’s certain things will fall silent and awkward again, both of them grasping at straws (or their cups, really) to find something to say. But then Louis looks up at him before averting his eyes back out the window to the snowy sidewalk. “You never came back.”

And Harry knows he owes him an explanation, but it still makes any semblance of one die in his throat. He’d run out of Louis’ bedroom that night like he never intended on stopping, like he would’ve kept running circles around the Earth if his heart wouldn’t give out. He’d mastered the art of vanishing from Louis’ life with surprisingly little effort. By then, he’d been in New York, a fresh start at his fingertips if only he picked himself up and allowed himself to turn a new page. So he’d done that. He’d taken his chance, flipped open a new chapter, and left his old, sad, suppressed self back in Sturgeon Bay where he belonged. Harry had promised himself he’d never be that person again.

“I never had a reason to,” he says finally, can hear himself echoing the weak explanation he’d given Louis last night on the deck. It’s not enough and he knows that’s why Louis’ brought it up again. Not a question, but a statement. No push, but a hopeful pull. 

Louis stares back, observing him, his eyes so intense in the early afternoon light that filters through that Harry has to look away. “Just wish you’d talked to me before you decided that,” he says, lifting the mocha for another sip. “You just ran out. And avoided me. I never got the -”

Harry cuts him off, defensive. “Can you blame me? Our entire fucking school heard something meant for _you._ Only you, Lou. It was so private. And fucking… Tim? Trevor? Whatever! Read that to our entire school. I poured my heart out. Was I supposed to just pretend that never happened? Was I just -” He stops, collecting himself with a deep breath. It’s one quick turn off the tracks and back into that headspace and heartache and Harry will _not_ allow himself to go there. Not when he’s spent the last decade trying to forget about how humiliating that night was. “It doesn’t matter. It was ten years ago.”

Louis’ jaw sets. “Right.”

Harry feels defeated. He’s had years to get over it, but it’s obvious now that it sits just under his skin, as fresh as the night it happened. When he looks back at Louis, he’s still sitting there, wound tight with resolve and refusing to break, stubborn with Harry’s dismissal of the conversation. He sighs, on the verge of crushing his cup in his hands out of frustration.

“Look, let’s just go. I’ve emails I need to reply to before this evening,” Harry says, already standing up and whisking his half full latte into the bin. This was a mistake. It’s plain to him that neither one of them are ready to speak about something that Harry now knows was painful for both of them. 

“Emails,” Louis echoes, not budging from his seat the table. “From Beyonce.”

Harry suddenly feels very tired, upset crawling up his spine. He’s not angry with Louis, exactly, but the whole situation weighs heavy on his heart. This whole day, really. It’s not gone to plan as he’d expected, but he should have guessed as much. When has anything he’s dreamed up in his head in the middle of the night ever panned out? It certainly didn’t when he’d decided to confess his feelings a decade ago, it certainly wasn’t going to now. 

“Are you coming?” he asks.

“Go on without me. I’ll walk home,” Louis answers, not even bothering to turn to face Harry.

The dismissive gesture makes Harry frown, his chest tight with hurt and anxiety and age old embarrassment, but he doesn’t say anything else. Just walks out the door and tries to mentally calculate if he can pull up his departing flight out of this god awful town.

x

It’s a Friday night when he gets a text from Niall.

_Niall (7:33PM): lads!!! who’s home?? let’s get a couple at poh’s_

He gets the same text from Niall every year, watching the exchange between him and Liam and never once hopping in to admit that he’s not home, letting each message go unanswered. He’s honestly surprised that Niall hasn’t given up, considering Harry has never once responded to his annual text, not a single time, since senior year. A moment passes where he contemplates doing the same thing this year, but his pride has had a chance to settle enough from his lunch with Louis that he decides to try, once again, to sink back into his old life.

_Harry (7:34PM): I’m in. Been inside all day anyway. Could use the change of scenery!_

There’s a pause and then a flurry of messages come through faster than Harry can read them. 

_Niall (7:34PM): ………………. ARE YOU FUCKING WITH ME??_

_Niall (7:34PM): no fucking way_

_Niall (7:35PM): no fucking way you’re in sturgeon bay_

Harry chuckles at the same time he feels like crying that it’s so unbelievable to one of his oldest friends that he’s home. If Niall feels like this, he wonders how his own family feels. He takes a photo out his bedroom window, the Tomlinson’s house cozily lit against the evening sky distinct enough as proof, and sends it to the group.

_Niall (7:38PM): WTF!!! you never said!!_

_Harry (7:38PM): Holiday magic._

_Liam (7:39PM): this is amazing! can’t wait for you both to meet zayn_

Zayn? Harry stares at the screen, his pulse racing with confusion and sneaking suspicion. 

Getting up, he decides not to make assumptions. If New York’s taught him anything, it’s not to assume about anyone. Let people be themselves. He throws on a warm striped jumper over his t-shirt and skinny jeans, finds his boots, and is out the door in a matter of a few minutes, crunching through the snow.

His presumptions, however, would have been correct. When he steps through the door to Poh’s, more dingy than he remembers, Liam has his arm around a man, both of them laughing at whatever nonsense Niall is spitting. The guy is certifiably gorgeous, in Harry’s opinion, dark hair and dark eyes, tattoos for days, completely _not_ Liam’s type because the last time he checked, Liam was into women. Then again, he hasn’t seen Liam since high school, so what he knows is severely out of date.

He’s crossing the bar, his mind on getting to the bottom of this mystery, when his eyes lock onto a pair of blue belonging to the bartender. And then he’s gone, ducking below the bar that looks a lot less like he’s looking for something and a lot more like he’s decided to stop, drop, and roll. 

Harry doesn’t even say hello to Liam or Niall or the stranger he assumes to be Zayn, but instead marches right up to the bar, steps on the footrest running along the base, and leans across. “ _Louis?_ ”

Louis is sat there on the non slip mats, a drink shaker in his hands. “Harry! Uh… this is a surprise. Didn’t think this was your kind of place.” 

Harry’s eyebrows furrow because what is _that_ supposed to mean, but he makes no further comment. “What are you doing here? Or down there, rather.”

“I… work here? I mean, I don’t _work_ here, but I work here. You know. Extra cash,” Louis explains, fast and somewhat breathless. He stands up after and only then do they both realize the three sets of eyes watching them. Louis, quick to deflect, gestures at the stranger with the shaker. “Have you met Zayn?”

Zayn, to his credit, holds a hand out with a shy smile, seemingly ignoring the whole bizarre exchange that just occurred. “Hi, I’m Zayn. Liam’s boyfriend.”

Harry’s eyes immediately shoot to Liam, searching for an explanation, but all he sees is someone sickeningly taken with this Zayn fellow, an arm winding around his waist. Harry shakes his hand and regains his composure long enough to offer a kind smile. “It’s nice to meet you. I’m Harry. I didn’t know Liam was seeing anyone.”

Niall snorts into his Guinness. “Well, you wouldn’t, would you? Don’t text us very often,” he says, but where there should be malice, there is none, just plain fact.

"Can I get you something, Harry?” Louis interrupts, sliding some sort of mixed drink towards Zayn, apparently what had been in the shaker.

The whole scenario is so peculiar that Harry can feel himself fishmouthing, wanting to demand some clarification on what’s going on. But he doesn’t think he’s reading anything wrong. Louis works at the neighborhood dive bar and Liam is, at the very least, not straight and dating a man. He _has_ missed a lot, indeed.

Harry clears his throat. “Um… just a beer is fine. Whatever you’d recommend. Something-”

“Light, yeah. I remember,” Louis says, starting away towards the taps. Harry’s heart does a little skip that Louis should remember anything about him at all.

Harry slumps onto a bar stool beside Niall. “I feel like I just stepped into the Twilight Zone.”

Niall claps him on the shoulder with a jovial squeeze, but shrugs. “A lot happens with time, pal. You haven’t exactly been present.” 

Zayn excuses himself to the bathroom with a kiss to Liam’s cheek and as soon as he’s out of ear shot, Harry turns on Liam. “Since when?”

Liam looks almost bashful, his voice shy when he speaks. “Since always, I guess. Just wasn’t really apparent to me until I went to school.”

“Why didn’t you tell me!” Harry wails, shaking his head in both disbelief and a shade of hurt.

“It’s not exactly something you just bring up. ‘Hey, Harry. I know we haven’t caught up in ages, but wanted to let you know I think I might like men!’” Liam says, his eyes wide as he implores Harry to see reason.

And well, yeah. He has a point, Harry thinks. As difficult as it is to take a hard look at himself, he _has_ been out of touch, out of their circle aside from the odd text here and there to wish someone a happy birthday or, in the case of Niall, help hook him up with concert tickets when he’s in the city. In fact, he can’t think of a time when he’s responded to a message or initiated one that’s been more than a handful of words. In his desperation to leave Sturgeon Bay behind, all the hurt and heartache and insecurity, he left all the good things behind too, the people who had supported him through thick and thin.

He glances down the bar where Louis’ got his beer poured and in hand, caught up in conversation with another couple. Harry feels the swoop in his stomach, like the floor has dropped out from beneath him, when Louis glances in his direction and their eyes catch. A tiny smirk grows on Louis’ lips, as if he’d known Harry was staring right at him, and he excuses himself from the conversation to set the beer down on a coaster in front of him.

“On the house,” Louis says when Harry fumbles for his wallet, but Harry still slides a tenner across to him as a tip. Louis glances down at the cash, then back at Harry, eyes guarded and a bit apprehensive of Harry’s angle, but he takes it in the end, his tone flat. “Thanks.”

Turns out, as the night winds on, he doesn’t feel up to socializing much. Louis paces back and forth behind the bar, serving customers as they come and go, but primarily keeping his distance, and he listens to Liam and Niall tell stories from the past few years, cackling to themselves and infectious enough that even Zayn is amused. He zones in and out enough that he loses the thread of conversation several times and feels more removed from his friends than he ever has. 

Liam, however, has excellent taste in guys, Harry thinks. Zayn, although quiet, is an artist and when Harry does pipe up, it’s to discuss tattoos and books and street art and by the end of the evening, he’s got a new friend and inducted him into the group text he shares with Niall and Liam. If his mind drifts to adding Louis, no one needs to know.

It pangs Harry in his gut when he realizes the number he has in his phone assigned to Louis is probably not at all current.

x

Harry goes to lunch with Niall the following day at his insistence that he’s going to see him more than once while he’s in town and at least one of those times has to be sober. They choose the Bluefront Cafe because the sandwiches are huge and Niall’s obsessed with the muffaletta they serve, piled with fries on the side.

There’s about a thousand questions on the tip of Harry’s tongue, eager to fill in the blanks of all he’s missed from his friend’s lives. The apologies are also right there, ready to spill ahead, but he can tell from Niall’s expression that he’s reading right through him. An apology will never be necessary. Harry’s hit with the feeling of good fortune to have at least two friends in the world who will never fault him for his mistakes, but find understanding and forgiveness in them. It’s more than he deserves, he thinks.

“So Liam and Zayn, huh,” Harry comments curiously as he’s trying to figure out how to get his mouth around the massive sandwich served in front of him. He’d gone for smoked turkey, but it’s piled high with cheese and lettuce and the other standard accoutrements.

Niall nods as he stuffs a few fries into his mouth. “Yeah. Not a huge shocker, though. They’d been flirting since the day Liam met him. Took forever for them to get together. I was losing my fuckin’ mind about it.”

“Had no idea he liked guys,” Harry muses. He gives up on the sandwich for the moment and follows suit with the fries.

Niall shrugs. “Louis too.”

The fry lodges in the back of his throat while he tries to swallow, throwing him into a coughing fit that draws the attention of every single person in the cafe. He holds a hand up to indicate he’s alright, just maybe dying, and everyone turns back to mind their own business after one more concerned glance is thrown his way. 

_That_ is brand new information to him.

Niall rolls his eyes. “Suppose I shouldn’t be surprised you had no idea. You didn’t see how torn up he was when you basically ghosted him,” he says as he takes a massive bite out of his sandwich a second later. Harry’s momentarily distracted at how he’s possibly managed to do so with grace. “Didn’t even hear him out the other day, did you?”

Harry pokes at his sandwich and tries not to pout like a petulant child. He’d always figured that Louis had probably been confused and a bit sad, but that he’d gotten over it in a few weeks and moved on with his life just as Harry had attempted to do. It made little sense to Harry that Louis would have just accepted their friendship was all but over if he had any interest in him. He thinks back to the botched coffee date he’d had with Louis the other day, the way they’d stumbled through conversation. Harry had cut Louis off before he could dredge up too much of the past, safeguarding his own feelings instead of giving him the platform to say what he never had the chance to years ago.

Still, Harry stays stubborn. “You can’t possibly be blaming me for this,” he says as he finally picks up the sandwich. He gets his mouth around it, but nearly all the veggies fall straight out the bottom.

Niall shrugs, thinking, and then shakes his head. “I don’t think it’s anyone’s fault. I think you’re both idiots.”

Harry’s expression turns stormy, but Niall doesn’t bother acknowledging him as he presses on. “Look, you were both young. We all were. You might’ve figured out that you were gay and wanted to marry Louis and have his babies or whatever, but it took Louis a while to get there. Or be comfortable getting there. High school is fuckin’ weird. Especially here.”

Harry’s mind drifts back to his first days in New York. How he had always thought he was out, but soon discovered he was never _out_ the way it meant to be in New York, a city so alive with personalities and identities unique to every person. Being open about his sexuality and who he was in Sturgeon Bay meant that his classmates knew, teased him relentlessly, called him names, and Harry just had to _own_ it because he refused to be ashamed. In New York, he was one in a sea of many and he’d embraced himself in a way he’d never felt allowed to do so back home. He’d flourished under the attention of men he’d met at school and on evenings out, growing into himself and his experiences.

“I just wish I’d known. About both of them. It’s a lonely thing to go through if you’re suffocating in this fucking place,” Harry says as he focuses on trying to put his sandwich back together.

Niall nods solemnly as he takes another bite of his sandwich, but he finishes chewing before he speaks again. “It’s alright, yeah? Everyone’s made it through.” He pauses a moment, wiping his fingers on a napkin. “So. You gonna ask Louis out now?” 

“What?! No! It’s not like that,” Harry says, shaking his head fiercely. “It’s been ten years, Ni. If he ever… had a thing for me, it was just because we spent all of our time together.”

Niall sighs, staring back at him with a hint of incredulity. “You really don’t get it still, do you?”

x

It’s two days later, the day before Christmas Eve (or Louis’ Birthday Eve as Harry had so fondly nicknamed the 23rd), when Harry awakes from a nap with the strange feeling that he’d dreamt of that very person. He’s hot, too hot, as he always seems to be in this godforsaken bedroom, and he kicks the covers off, Louis’ voice and sharp humor rattling around in his skull. He closes his eyes, focuses on the sweat cooling on his skin now that the blankets are in a ball by his side, and hears Louis’ laugh echo between his ears. Only then does he realize that what he’s hearing is carrying up to his room from somewhere downstairs. The kitchen, if he had to guess.

He sits up on his elbows in bed, remaining entirely still as he strains to listen to every little sound he can make out. Which doesn’t turn out to be much of anything other than low murmurs, though he can distinctly tell which is his mom’s voice and which is Louis’. Truthfully, no amount of time will ever erase how he’s memorized the exact pitch and tone of Louis’ voice.

Eventually, curiosity gets the better of him and he pulls on a discarded pair of joggers to head downstairs, his t-shirt sleep rumpled and vaguely sweaty. He catches the clock on his way past the living room and sees it’s just after 5pm, dark enough outside to be confused with midnight. It hadn’t been his intention to sleep the afternoon away, but Gemma had met up with her friends for their annual Christmas brunch and his mom had gone to do the food shop. Harry had been invited to both, but he did have a mountain of work that was starting to pile up from his absence at the office and well… he chose to take a nap instead.

When he steps into the kitchen, it feels like it could be 2009 all over again. Louis is sat with Anne, hands wrapped around a mug - _his_ mug, Harry’s brain helpfully notes, the one printed with faded smiley faces from years in the dishwasher that Harry had gifted him one year. They’re just chatting, talking softly and catching up like this is a regular occurrence, and the whole scene feels so normal, so cut straight from the cloth of his past, that he forgets to breathe for a solid thirty seconds.

“Darling! You’re awake,” Anne calls to him, looking delighted. “Louis just stopped by to bring a gift for Gemma and I. Isn’t that sweet?”

Harry glances at Louis and then back to his mom, already up and at the kettle to fix him a cup of tea as well. Maybe it’s the nap that’s got his mind working in slow motion, but all he can seem to do is look back and forth between them and then fold himself into the chair diagonal from Louis. 

“Didn’t know you were coming home or I’d have gotten a little something for you as well,” Louis says to him with a small shrug. “Maybe next year.”

The assumption this will happen again, that Harry will be home the following year, makes Harry ache. There’s still a part of him that wants to flea, tell Louis he won’t be back, not for another decade if he can help it. Instead, he says, “Don’t worry about it.”

Silence swoops in just as it had days ago at Kick and Harry knows it’s palpable when Anne keeps looking over her shoulder, first at him and then at Louis, concern etched into her face. Apparently, Louis feels it too. Before Harry can break the tension or Anne can rescue him from his own self created situation, Louis’ up and dropping his mug in the sink. 

“I’ll be off then, Anne. Should be getting back about now. Thank you for the tea,” he says.

Harry’s desperate for him to stay, though, and he knows Anne can see it all over his face when he looks back at her, stricken. They seem to be caught in a pattern of not speaking, not saying things they need to say from either end, but for some reason, Harry thinks watching him walk out his front door would be worse. 

“Oh, are you sure, Louis? I haven’t had any time to do our tree up properly other than the few baubles I threw on the other night for the party. I was going to make a tray of cookies and rope Harry into decorating with me. Surely we could use another set of hands!” 

His mom, Harry thinks, is an absolute genius. As soon as she throws the invite out, full of hope and a threat of disappointment, smile wide and bright, he knows Louis is going to say yes. He only hesitates for a second before he lets his hands fall to his sides with a slap of agreement. “Alright then. Why not,” he chuckles.

Harry lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding and when Louis looks over, noticing, he averts his own eyes, caught. He’d allowed himself to be foolish in the guise of midnight that a Christmas miracle might occur, that anything with Louis might happen; he doesn’t need him realizing just how _not_ over him Harry is. 

“You two head in and start unpacking the boxes. I’ll just pop some cookies into the oven,” Anne suggests, already shooing them both out of the kitchen and towards the living room.

The tree, to Anne’s credit, is looking quite sad, so that much wasn’t a lie. It’s only got a few lonely ornaments on it and it could use a few more strings of lights to really make it come to life. In fact, one string looks precariously on the verge of going out completely, a few of the bulbs already dark and breaking up the merry glow. It’s going to be a task to get it looking up to their usual standard, but Harry’s up for it. The longer it takes, the longer Louis will have to stay behind.

“I’ll start pulling this stuff off. Think we’re going to need to start from scratch,” Harry says, carefully removing the few baubles and setting them aside on the coffee table. 

Louis’ already half buried inside the box of decorations, sorting ornaments from garland, and when he lifts himself out, his hair has a bit of tinsel in it. He looks young again, not even close to thirty, and Harry smiles at the familiarity, how this was once a tradition. Every year, Louis would come with them to pick out a tree and then would stay through the evening to decorate, his own family pulling a fake tree from a box, already pre-lit since Jay never wanted to fuss with the mess of a real one, far too busy with shifts at the hospital and a family of little ones. Something that seemed to be so ordinary to Harry was always a piece of the holiday season that Louis looked forward to the most.

“Did you put your tree up?” Harry asks him, but Louis’ disappeared inside the box again.

His voice comes muffled from inside the walls of cardboard. “Fake as ever.”

It makes Harry smile as he unwinds the lights around the tree, getting them tangled around a leg in the process. When he gets them off, he spends a few minutes trying to pull out the dead bulbs and replace them with new ones from a little packet. Instead, he ends up putting the whole string out in his effort.

“Oh man. Look at this,” Louis says, immediately distracting him from his frustration with the lights. He’s holding an ornament in his hand and when Harry looks closer, he knows exactly which one it is. “Remember this one?”

It’s a half green, half blue bauble, some of the paint scratching off now, _H + L_ displayed on one side in glitter, homemade. They’d made it years ago in middle school, Harry thinks, when their whole class spent the last day before Christmas break making ornaments. Just seeing it sets Harry down the road of nostalgia, making him go soft around the edges as he thinks about how much history he and Louis share. A bubble of emotion invades his throat that it’s managed to survive all these years.

“I can’t believe it hasn’t been crushed,” Harry says, reaching out to tap the ornament lightly with an index finger, sending it spinning where it’s suspended on Louis’.

Louis smiles. “This has to be the first one on the tree. Tradition.”

Louis sets the ornament down carefully, shifting back to his feet when he’s emptied the box. He finds a new task in placing an old Christmas record on the player in the corner of the living room, setting the needle carefully. Burl Ives’ soundtrack to _Rudolph_ crackles on, the sound slightly tinny, but cheerful and bright nonetheless. Harry remembers it was always Louis’ favorite, that he knows almost every word by heart.

They set about in comfortable silence, restringing the lights on the tree and adding a brand new box when they run out near the bottom. Harry’s mind is still running circles, but it’s less frantic, he realizes, the quiet not at all tense like it had been in the kitchen, broken by their shared chore and the music that’s got both of them humming under their breath.

“You want to tell me about California?” Harry asks. It feels like a good time to try again, both of them relaxed with their focus on the tree as a means of escape if needed. 

Louis looks at him from the other side, rearranging bits of the string so they drape nicely over each branch. He reaches for their ornament after. “Help me find a place for this thing and then maybe.”

Harry points to a spot on the tree, near the center, but Louis shakes his head. “What do you mean, no?” Harry asks, puzzled.

“It needs a better spot, that’s what I mean by ‘no,’” Louis scoffs, lifting the bauble a little higher towards the top. He can’t quite reach the spot he’s going for, so Harry takes it from him, their fingers brushing delicately, and places it on the branch. They both look away at the contact, the back of Harry’s neck suddenly flaring hot.

“Looks good,” Louis says, nodding as he stands and looks up at it, hands perched on his hips.

Harry reaches for a few more ornaments, the less unique and sentimental, starting to place them at random around the tree. They’ve fallen back into silence again as Louis does the same, placing a silver where Harry puts a gold, making sure no two alike are next to each other. 

“Couldn’t afford to go. You know how much tuition at UCLA is for out of state students? A lot,” Louis says eventually. He doesn’t slow down or stop decorating and Harry’s sure it’s easier for him to focus on the tree while he explains. “Was just going to take a year, you know. Between high school and college. Work at Poh’s and hopefully make enough to pay for some of the first year. Part time even. But… college is fucking expensive. And people tip like shit here. Even if they’ve known me all my life.”

Harry stays quiet, giving him the floor to say as much or as little as he’d like. After it seems like Louis isn’t going to elaborate much further, Harry says gently, “There were scholarships, though, no? Financial aid.”

Louis shrugs, bending down for a few more ornaments. “The only thing worse than not being able to afford college is taking out loans and then graduating and still not being able to afford to pay it back.”

Harry frowns deeply at the bauble in his hands. He’d always assumed that Louis had left, gone to college just as he had, and started a new life in California that paralleled his own in New York. For all their friendship had meant to him, for all _Louis_ had meant to him, Harry had fucked off to NYU and had never bothered to ask or find out. He’d closed himself off to anything more than vague news about Louis. All this time, _ten years_ , Louis had just… been here, alone, working at fucking _Poh’s_ of all places, and Harry hadn’t even known.

“Don’t look so morose over there,” Louis says, breaking him from his own thoughts. “I’m a teacher’s aid during the day at the elementary school. And it’s not all bad cleaning up after Tim every Friday night. Saturday too, for that matter.”

It’s not exactly funny, rather sad, but it brings a smile to Harry’s face anyway that that asshole never left either, that he’d peaked in high school and the rest of his life had been a waste, sat at a bar and still wearing his jersey, two sizes too small now. He wishes for Louis’ sake that he’d found a way out of Sturgeon Bay, but he’s comforted by the fact that he at least has a day job that’s allowed him to chase some of his passion. In Harry’s opinion, he’d always been too bright and too wonderful, larger than life in so many ways, to stay behind in a town like this.

“Let me up on your shoulders. I want to do the star,” Louis says, hands already clutched around a silver tree topper. 

Harry swallows at the prospect of having Louis so close, tripping over his thoughts as he seeks an excuse _not_ to do that. He comes up empty handed, though, bending down to one knee and crouching so Louis can swing his legs on either side of his neck and on top of his shoulders. 

“This is a terrible idea, Lou,” Harry says as he tries to rise to his feet, wobbling. Louis’ got the star in one hand and the other grasps at Harry’s hair for balance, nearly making him moan out loud. It shouldn’t have that effect on him given their current activity, but it does, years of wet dreams and fantasies right there at the forefront of Harry’s mind.

Louis wiggles on Harry’s shoulders, legs and hips urging him forward in a way that makes Harry feel like he’s humping the back of his neck. “Just… a little closer. Almost there. Yes!” He claps a hand to Harry’s forehead, the star centered on the top of the tree. “Perfect!”

Harry takes a step backward to observe the tree. It’s looking much better than it did an hour ago when they came in here, the lights bright and even and the ornaments winking from each branch of the tree.

“I’m going to dump you on the couch. Don’t think we’ll make it if I try to bend down again,” Harry says, taking a few awkward steps towards the couch. He tilts forward until Louis can roll off his shoulders, but the momentum pulls Harry with him until he’s laying on top of Louis’ legs, his face far too close to his ass for comfort. Make no mistake about, Louis Tomlinson’s ass still looks as good as it did in high school. Harry would know; he spent enough time subtly looking.

When he looks up, Louis’ looking back at him over his shoulder, a smirk on his face that makes Harry scramble back as fast as he can, though it’s a futile flail of limbs as he tries to untangle himself from Louis’ legs. 

“I _told_ you that was a terrible idea,” Harry huffs, his cheeks gone pink as he flushes down his neck.

It’s with the desire to flea from the room that Harry realizes his mom never joined them and he says as much out loud. “Going to go check if she needs help,” he mumbles, hurrying back to the kitchen as fast as his stocking feet will take him on the hardwood floors.

But when he makes it into the kitchen, Anne is nowhere to be found. All he sees is a rack with cooling chocolate chip cookies on it, their mugs rinsed out and ready for another use beside it. His eyes narrow despite no one being there to see him, making a mental note to tell her off ( _gently_ , of course) for interfering in his love life. Or lack thereof, really.

With a sigh, Harry puts a few cookies on a plate and makes fresh cups of tea, grateful for a few minutes to himself to recover. It should probably be humiliating that he’s only been home a few days and his mom has already caught on to his pining, found a way to force himself and Louis not only into a room together, but partaking in the very tradition that holds such fond memories for both of them. Instead, he appreciates the second chance to spend some time together, to try to mend what he threw away because he couldn’t swallow his eighteen year old pride.

“Cookies were done. They’re chocolate chip,” Harry says, balancing the two mugs and plate rather comically as he shuffles back in. “Same recipe you always loved.”

Louis looks up from the sofa, an album of Christmas photos he’s found in hand. They’re mostly of Harry’s family, but starting around age nine, Louis appears in almost all of them. “Love those. They’re always gooey in the middle,” he says as he reaches for one before Harry can even set the plate down. It’s around a mouthful of cookie that he continues, “Look at these.”

There’s a part of Harry that doesn’t want to. The Harry that grew up, moved away to New York, and became too cool to ever return to Sturgeon Bay has no interest in looking back at his floppy haired self, hopelessly in love with Louis and obvious to everyone around them. Maybe it’s the Christmas tree, their ornament they hung together, the star that twinkles with the strung lights, or maybe it’s the warm tea and the look of joy on Louis’ face at something as simple as his mom’s baking, but Harry feels soft. He’s willing to look, flip through the photos, and indulge in a little trip down memory lane just for Louis.

“Remember that year we got lost on the Christmas tree farm?” Louis asks. There’s no evidence of their lack of direction, but Harry knows the exact family photo from that particular year. Both he and Louis’ cheeks are wind burned from an hour of walking around aimlessly and there’s mud caked on Louis’ sneakers.

Harry laughs, nodding as he points to the photo. “I thought you were going to lose your toes that day. Who wears sneakers to pick out a tree? Who wears sneakers in December in _Wisconsin._ ” 

“It was supposed to be a twenty minute thing! In and out. Find a tree, cut it down, leg it,” Louis defends, but there’s no upset in his voice, just fond amusement.

Harry hums his assent as he lifts the mug for a sip of tea, curling his legs up beside him as he looks over Louis’ shoulder at the next page in the album. The progression through the photos shows one in their friendship as well, from unsure, awkward kids to teenagers growing comfortable in themselves and with each other. Where they simply stood next to one another at nine, ten, eleven, Harry has an arm slung around Louis’ shoulder or his waist at fifteen, sixteen, seventeen.

The last photo in the album is from Christmas break their senior year. Harry can’t remember where they were, but he remembers he’d been hounding Louis all day to wear a Santa hat. When he finally caved, Harry had jammed the hat straight on his head and planted a fat kiss on his cheek. He hadn’t even thought about it, had just done it out of elation, and someone had caught it on camera, sealed the moment in film.

What Harry remembers so clearly about that moment is the fright he’d exposed his feelings for Louis, that he’d made him uncomfortable with the gesture. He’d backed off immediately, gotten timid and shy, but as Harry looks at the photo now, he can’t imagine why. Louis’ smile is so wide and bright that his eyes have disappeared behind the tell tale crinkles of happiness, like there wasn’t a single place he’d rather have been all day than by Harry’s side, listening to him whine about the stupid hat.

“What happened to us?” Louis muses out loud, though his voice is soft, warmed by the tea.

Harry doesn’t have an answer, but he can tell from the expression on Louis’ face that he’s looking at the same photo, seeing the same emotion painted on their faces plainly, no matter how it changed seconds after the photo was taken. He sighs. “We just grew up, Lou.”

It takes a moment, but eventually Louis nods, though Harry’s not convinced he agrees and if he’s honest with himself, he knows it’s not the truth anyway. They both know the catalyst that drove Harry to the east coast, but it’s easier not to acknowledge it, play it off as high school puppy love.

“Your birthday is tomorrow,” Harry says instead, leaning his head sideways against the back of the sofa. His eyes remain trained on Louis, watching his profile.

“Thirty-one,” Louis says, nodding with a chuckle, the back of his head against the top of the cushion. “Mom’s doing a lasagna. And a cake,” he says, rolling his neck so he can turn to see Harry. “You should come. Everyone would love to see you.”

Harry hadn’t been fishing for an invitation, but he nods anyway. Somehow he thinks turning down the invite would be rude, hurtful, given that it’s not only Christmas Eve. He can’t imagine spending it in Sturgeon Bay and not dually celebrating Louis’ birthday as well. “Yeah, I’d love to.”

Louis’ lips turn up in a smile, his blue eyes reflecting the lights from the tree as he stares across at Harry. “Look at that. Christmas came early,” he says, voice an octave lower in the close proximity.

“Shut up,” Harry huffs, but he has to roll his lips between his teeth to fight the smile threatening to overtake his face.

Louis takes one more sip of tea and then shifts forward to set the mug on the coffee table. “I really should be off. Said I was leaving like, two hours ago,” he says with a soft chuckle.

And as much as Harry doesn’t want him to go, he knows it’s probably a good idea. The clock is ticking later and despite having not an ounce of alcohol in his system, Harry’s feeling drunk on nostalgia and Louis’ eyes and his voice and his smile and everything he’s missed about him for the last ten years, but has apparently never forgotten. He’s dangerously close to saying, or _doing_ , something he’d likely regret. 

Harry stands after him and follows him out to the front door, but Louis turns back, mumbling about his phone being lost somewhere in the couch. When he returns, there’s a moment they just stand there, looking at each other with the sort of bashfulness that belongs to a first date and not a friendship that has ebbed and flowed since they were kids. All Harry can think about is how badly he wants to kiss Louis, how that opportunity was robbed from him years ago and he’d like it back now.

But Louis interrupts his train of thought, hand slowly turning the knob on the door. “Tomorrow, yeah? Don’t stand me up on my own birthday.” He winks, always playful, and Harry wants to sink through the floor.

“Wouldn’t dream of it. Make sure there’s mint chip ice cream to go with the cake,” he says instead. 

When he closes the door, it’s against Louis’ laugh, though it continues to echo inside his head and heart long after he leaves.

x

As the afternoon turns to dusk in a purplish glow, evening falling all around them, Harry gets ready to head to the Tomlinson’s. He stands at the foot of his bed trying to decide between two outfits, one that looks put together, but not like he’s trying too hard. It’s only when he realizes he’s spent more time than he does on any given morning, getting ready to meet with clients and record label execs, that he knows he’s being ridiculous. Chances are Louis won’t even notice. Strangely enough, all of his designer pieces don’t feel quite right tonight, so he ends up in a jumper decorated with moons and other cosmos, not at all festive, and a pair of skinny jeans.

He knows it was a good decision when Louis answers the door, looks him up and down with a smile, and says, “I like your planets.”

Harry glances down at himself in surprise, but looks up immediately after, pleased. “Thank you. Happy birthday, Louis. Hope I’m not late?”

Louis ushers him in out of the cold and into the warmth of the house, voices in conversation floating from the kitchen. “Not at all. The lasagna’s just coming out now. The girls are fighting about the garlic bread.”

As soon as he steps foot inside, Harry can feel the rise of panic at being inside the Tomlinson’s house again. He hasn’t set foot inside since he’d fled all those years ago and just the sight of the staircase makes his pulse race with the phantom memory of humiliation. It’s surprising that he can focus at all on the words leaving Louis’ mouth, let alone remember the tiny gift he brought along with him. 

“What’s there to fight about?” Harry laughs, puzzled, and holds out the small box to Louis, wrapped neatly in candy cane striped paper.

Louis’ eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “Oh! You didn’t have to do that, Harry. Just coming for dinner was enough.” 

“It’s not much. Don’t worry. Just a little something,” Harry says, toeing off his boots so that the packed snow in the soles doesn’t melt all over the house. 

With a nod, Louis places the gift on the table by the door to open later and tugs Harry by the jumper into the kitchen. It’s an explosion of smiling faces, Christmas and birthday cheer, and the usual sibling arguments, each voice rising louder than the next. They all turn to Harry at once with wide, shocked faces, and he wonders if Louis told them he was coming or if his company is everyone’s Christmas surprise. 

“Hello!” he says a bit too loudly, so overly friendly it lands a bit awkward. He stares around to each of the girls, trying to make sense of who is who and how they’ve all managed to grow into beautiful young women. Even Doris looks much too old for Harry’s memory. 

“Harry!” Jay cries all at once, rushing forward to fold him into a crushing hug, similar to the one she gave him the other evening. “So glad you could make it. I know it’s made Louis’ whole year.”

Louis rolls his eyes and somehow plays off his embarrassment as exasperation, something Harry’s always been envious of. “Yeah, yeah. Let the man breathe, mom. Christ.”

“Don’t you _christ_ me. It’s Christmas and I’m still letting you live under my roof even though you should be settled down by now,” she scolds. Louis’ second eye roll alerts Harry that this is an ongoing discussion.

Jay hurries off to finish getting dinner settled, placing the lasagna down in the center of the table and baskets of garlic bread on either side. There’s a massive Caesar salad served as well and Harry notes that it’s the same meal Louis’ had every year for his birthday as long as he’s known him. It’s a comfort to know that even with all he’s missed, some things really never change, but it hits him in his feelings just the same. He serves himself a hefty pour of the red wine Jay’s placed on the table in hopes that it settles his emotions rather than stokes the flame.

Dinner passes in the usual mayhem that accompanies any sort of event that has the whole Tomlinson family sitting down together at once. It’s the kind of madness that Harry has always loved ever since they’d moved in across the street, the sort of dynamic that comes with a huge family full of loud personalities. Harry laughs until his stomach hurts and his cheeks ache, getting reacquainted with each of the girls and pouring on the dazzle now and again when they ask about his job, who he’s met. 

“Not Beyonce, though,” Louis helpfully supplies, grinning as he bites into another piece of garlic bread. In contrast to the other day, Louis’ voice is fond rather than critical.

Harry smiles, half sheepish. “Not Beyonce. Unfortunately. Sorry, girls.” 

When the chatter dies to a quiet lull, Jay slips away to light the candles in the homemade strawberry cake she’s crafted. The lights turn off all at once and pull everyone’s attention to the candlelight glowing on her face as she launches into song, leading everyone to join in wishing Louis a happy birthday. Harry catches his eye as the luminescence transfers to Louis’ face, the cake set in front of him and beckoning him to make a wish. They stare at one another over the candles, the room feeling charged for that split second, and Harry sucks in a breath that he holds as Louis’ eyelashes fan out against his cheeks, eyes closed as he blows them out. It’s natural for anyone to wonder what the person of honor wishes for on their candles, but Harry would give just about anything to know Louis’.

The lights flip on in the next second and the magic of the moment is broken, lost to the clatter of plates as the cake is cut and served up to each person around the table. There’s the promised mint chip ice cream because it’s Louis’ favorite (and Harry’s, but who’s counting), even though it doesn’t exactly go with strawberry cake, and Louis chooses the piece that has the most frosting.

The girls peel off one by one after their sweet teeth are satisfied until just he, Louis, and Jay remain, and Harry thinks it has more to do with avoiding the stack of dishes piling up than it has to do with any real desire to excuse themselves from the conversation. Harry is full, can’t imagine eating for at least twenty four hours, but he’s more content than he’s felt in a long time. Jay’s watching them with a soft expression, but Harry can’t read the intention behind it other than the general happiness she radiates.

“You boys go ahead. I’ll clean up the kitchen,” she says when a sleepy silence curls around the room.

Harry shakes his head, though. “No, I couldn’t let you. Let me, yeah? You cooked all day.”

Jay opens her mouth to protest, but Louis cuts her off. “I’m not helping, H. It’s my birthday.”

“You don’t help even when it’s not your birthday,” Harry quips, hating the way his voice goes affectionate the way it always has at Louis’ general messiness.

Louis scoffs. “Not true. I help plenty.”

Harry stands from the table to collect the abandoned plates and silverware, stacking cake dishes and drink glasses to bring to the sink. Jay wordlessly drifts to his side to press a kiss to his cheek and leave a squeeze on his shoulder before she too retires from the kitchen, disappearing somewhere in the house with the rest of her children. 

He gets lost in rinsing each plate before he places them in the dishwasher, his mind conflicted between how strange it feels to be here in this moment, and yet, not strange at all. It feels like he’s reliving a page from his past, one that he’s tried to forget or erase, but finds that he no longer wants to. On his flight back to Wisconsin, Harry couldn’t ever imagine fitting back into this setting, but he realizes now it isn’t difficult at all. 

To his credit, Louis eventually gets up to help, wiping crumbs and spilled sauce off the kitchen table to restore it to its prior state and effectively snapping Harry from his spiral. 

“Watching _The Grinch_ tonight?” Harry asks, a small smile playing at his lips as he leans a hip against the sink, drying his hands. 

Louis mirrors his position, nodding. “Like every year. You wanna join us?” 

Harry shakes his head, neatly folding the dish towel to lay beside the sink. “My mom was hoping Gemma and I would be home early enough to spend some time all together tonight. The calm before the Styles Christmas Day storm.”

“Your mom still does that? The roast and all the bits?” Louis asks, surprised. 

Harry nods. “Yeah, the years that they spend here. Usually every other they come to New York.”

The mention of New York seems to stiffen Louis, barely noticeable to the untrained eye, but Harry sees his shoulders relax a second later. “I’ve got something for you. Before you go.”

Louis leads him back through to the foyer, disappearing into the living room as Harry struggles back into his boots. When he returns, it’s with a flat envelope that looks like a Christmas card and Harry relaxes that it isn’t a gift Louis’ spent his hard earned cash on. 

“Thank you,” Harry says at the same time Louis chimes, “Open it when you get home. Or whenever, really.”

Harry nods and tucks the envelope into his jacket, remembering the abandoned birthday gift on the hall table. He reaches for it, taking Louis’ hand to place the small box in his palm. “Open it before I go.”

If Harry knows anything about Louis, it’s that he hates opening gifts in front of the gift giver. But if Louis knows anything about Harry, it’s that he loves to give gifts and he won’t get out of doing so at Harry’s instruction. Even so, Harry fidgets, turning his pigeon toes in with nerves as he watches Louis unwrap the box. 

Resting on the tissue paper inside is a tiny, worn Statue of Liberty keychain. She’s a bit scratched and tarnished and Harry can see Louis working out the meaning in his mind, but he can’t help but add his explanation to the mix, voice soft. 

“Was the first thing I bought when I moved. I know she’s a little worse for wear, but. Thought she could use a new home now. A little reminder, you know? You’ve got someone that cares about you out on the east coast,” he says softly. 

Louis swallows, rubbing his thumb over the keychain and looking a bit overcome with the gesture. Eventually, he finds his voice. “I love it, Harry. It’s perfect. I’ll probably be too afraid to put it on my keys,” he chuckles. 

Harry laughs, warm with the wine consumed at dinner. “Well, make sure you at least put it somewhere you can see it. Don’t break my heart and throw it in a drawer,” he says, ignoring the way his brain helpfully reminds him it wouldn’t be the first time his heart was broken. 

Louis makes the first move when he steps in to hug his arms around Harry’s waist. Harry’s reaction is immediate, folding his arms around Louis’ shoulders in a tight embrace to keep him near, breathe him in, face tucked into the side of his neck. It’s been longer than a decade since he’s had Louis so close and Harry refuses to let go until he absolutely has to. He wishes he could suspend the moment, freeze time where they stand while the rest of the world turns around them, as if trapped in a snowglobe.

When they part, it’s to Harry stepping back out the front door, the smell of snow heavy in the air. He turns back halfway down the path, allowing himself one last look of Louis in the doorframe, in shadow and backlit from the low lights on in the house. “Happy birthday, Lou.”

x

His own house is warm, cozy in the way only home can be and something he hadn’t really allowed himself to miss. He can hear Gemma, Anne, and Robin in the living room, the low hum of a Christmas special on the television. As silently as he can, he toes off his boots and hangs his jacket, padding towards the living room and just watching them from the outside. Gemma is busy too, but she still makes it home on the years they don’t visit New York, and Harry is struck with exactly what he’s missed, not necessarily just with his friends, but his family too.

Anne turns her head and catches sight of him, jumping almost comically if Harry didn’t feel so bad, a hand placed to her chest. “Harry! Why are you just standing there? Come in and join us!”

“Give mom a heart attack on Christmas, nice,” Gemma admonishes, but she’s already scooting aside to make room for him on the sectional. 

Before he can really protest, there’s a blanket tossed over his lap and popcorn offered to him and he feels like he’s been folded right back into his family despite his intentional absence over the years. But he supposes that’s what family is for - to love you unconditionally, give you space to grow when needed, and to welcome you back when the time comes. Harry’s so grateful that there are no questions, no ill will from his mom or sister or stepdad, and the whole thing wells the emotion in his chest once again that he’d discovered back at the Tomlinson’s.

Unlike Louis’ birthday Grinch tradition, the Styles’ family always sits down to watch _Home Alone_ and _Home Alone 2_ back to back, has done so as long as Harry can remember. As a kid, Harry could recite both films from heart and often would at the least appropriate times during the year - a summer vacation or just far too early in the season before Thanksgiving had even passed. Even now as he sits on the couch, nearly to the end of the first, his lips move wordlessly along with the scenes on the television. Gemma looks poised to tell him to shut up at any moment if his miming actually starts to take shape into words. She’s never had the patience for Harry reading along to the script.

Near midnight, both movies long since finished, Anne and Robin say goodnight with a forehead kiss to each of them and a murmured, “Merry Christmas.” At the start of the week, Harry’s sure he would have protested the affection, but he just smiles tiredly to himself, so content and relaxed that it’s hard to imagine any feeling that’s not love and deep seated appreciation for what he’s got.

“Did you have a nice time at Louis’?” Gemma asks softly once they’ve got the room to themselves.

Harry just nods, his arms still wrapped around the empty popcorn bowl. It’s hard to put into words exactly what this evening has meant to him. The whole thing, start to finish, has settled something inside Harry. “Was just like old times,” he says eventually.

Gemma hums her acknowledgement, still flipping up and down the television guide in search of something else to throw on as background noise. “You know, you might have left, but Louis never stopped caring about you. It’s been, what. Ten years? He still asks how you’re doing every time he comes by.”

Harry swallows thickly and bites down hard on his back teeth, clenching his jaw and willing himself not to tear up. All the sentiment of the evening is still sitting across his heart and he’s not sure how many more truths he can face until he dissolves completely into his emotions. Gemma looks over at him when he says nothing, reaching across to squeeze his hand in silent solidarity, a show of support, before she untangles from the blanket to stand.

“Beauty sleep awaits. Can’t skip just because it’s Christmas,” she says, collecting her phone and water bottle from the coffee table.

She’s long gone by the time Harry remembers the letter. He slides in his socks back out to the foyer, digging in the coat closet for his jacket and feeling around blindly until his hand makes contact with the envelope. The practical part of Harry knows it’s just a Christmas card, perhaps a gift card, but there’s a piece of him that hopes it’s something else. What, he isn’t exactly sure, but the yearning that runs from his chest to his stomach is enough to know he’ll be disappointed if it is just a generic card.

But it’s not at all. There is no Christmas greeting or well wishes for the new year. Instead, there’s a folded piece of notebook paper that still has the bits on the side as if it was torn out in a hurry, too precious to stop for even a moment before it was passed on to its rightful owner. Slotted in between the folded page is the photograph they’d both lingered on from the album - Louis’ eyes squeezed shut, Harry’s lips planted right on his cheekbone, a bubble of happiness surrounding them for that split second. The handwriting Harry would recognize anywhere, any time, in any life. He has to take a steadying breath as he sits back down on the sofa, alone with himself, and reads.

_Harry -_

_A decade overdue, huh?_

_Hindsight is 20/20, but I wish I’d tried harder to tell you this back then. I think if I’d been as brave as you were, I would have. Even if it meant following you to New York and making a grand gesture. I think you would have liked that, knowing your penchant for romantic comedies._

_Stole this photo from the album. Sorry about that. I’m kind of shit at this love letter thing, but sometimes a picture is worth a thousand words, you know what I mean? When I saw this picture again, it was so obvious. You’ve always been more than my best friend to me, Harry. I’m just sorry that I never told you that sooner._

_Please don’t feel like you owe me anything. If anyone owes anyone anything, it’s me that’s owed you the truth. You’ve got it now. I hope you take it back with you to the big city and think of me from time to time. Maybe you won’t be a stranger for another decade, but if you are, know that you’re often on my mind._

_Loads of love,_

_Louis xx_

Harry’s breath comes in a gasp when he finishes the note, punched out of his lungs as though he’d been held underwater. It’s everything he wanted to hear ten years ago and everything he thought he’d never get. When he glances back to the note, he realizes he can hardly reread it, vision blurred as his eyes fill with tears. Hands shaking, he lifts them to bat away at each one threatening to fall, his heart swelling as he reads through each line again and again until he’s nearly got it memorized. 

Even on the second, third, fourth time through, the shock persists, and he feels like he’s going to pass out on his feet while his whole being fills with elation at the same time. The heaviness in his heart that he’s carried with him over the years, that he’s just grown accustomed to holding in his chest, dissipates and creates an empty space that’s instantly filled with light and hopefulness.

The thing is, though, when the initial surprise fades and his heart rate returns to normal, Harry doesn’t know what to make of it. As much as he’s longed to know if Louis could ever reciprocate his feelings, as exultant as he feels, Harry’s not sure if it changes anything. He still lives in New York. Louis still lives in Wisconsin. They share years of memories and experiences, but they’re different people now too. He’s not sure how either one of them would fit into one another’s life, especially after their fragile reintroduction over the last few days. 

There’s restless energy just beneath his skin, making his whole body rigid. He folds the note back up with the photograph in between, taking them both with him as he gets up to grab his jacket and stuff his feet back into his boots. It happens so fast, his body on autopilot, that he’s out the door, one arm in his coat, before his brain can really catch up to what he’s doing.

The cold air bites at his nose and cheeks, the tops of his ears, but it’s refreshing and he hopes it will drive some clarity in his head, the lines of Louis’ note repeatedly running in his mind. A fresh dusting of snow covers the sidewalks, but it’s not unmarred, a set of footprints creating a trail down the street. It should be chalked up to instinct that he follows them for no real reason other than he feels like he’s meant to, crossing the street when they take him that way until he ends up at the playground.

There’s a lonely figure on the swing he sat on just a few nights ago, moving back and forth with one foot dragging through the snow. Though they have their hood pulled up over their head, Harry knows the slouch in the shoulders and the dip in the waist to recognize it as Louis. He doesn’t want to startle him, so he makes sure his boots crunch loudly through the frozen cap of snow as he traipses across the park to the swings to join him. 

Louis looks over his shoulder when Harry’s close enough to be heard, his head falling forward on his neck with a wry chuckle. “Swear I didn’t plan this.”

“I know you didn’t. Just got lucky that I’m an idiot that likes to take walks in the middle of the night,” Harry answers, taking the other swing beside him. 

Louis huffs another laugh, but doesn’t say anything else, his eyes refocusing on the tunnel his foot is making in the snow. He finds his voice when Harry makes no move to leave, looking up bravely. “You read it then?”

Harry nods, tries to find his own words. Instead, he takes his hand from his coat pocket and holds it out between the two swings, inviting Louis to take it. And he does, chilly fingers in Harry’s own warm ones. “Jesus, Lou. How long have you been out here?”

Louis shrugs. “Dunno. A while.”

Turning on the swing, Harry holds his other hand out for Louis’, sandwiching them both between his own for warmth. “Always ran cold.”

“Always ran hot,” Louis quips right back, lips turned up in a smile that’s not quite directed at Harry, but at the sight of their hands folded together. “I should have told you, you know. I should have run after you and told you that night. But you were so hurt and I was so afraid to break what we had. I was so afraid that I just… let it go to shit and break anyway.”

Harry swallows hard, his eyes flickering up to meet Louis’, blue even now in the dead of night, barely catching the streetlights that surround the edge of the park. Louis’ not wrong, Harry thinks. He should have told him, been honest, courageous. But Harry can’t blame him anymore than he can blame himself. They were just kids trying to figure one another out at a time in their lives when everything was muddled and confusing. Figuring themselves out was hard enough without toeing the line of what their friendship meant.

“C’mere,” Harry whispers. He lets go of Louis’ hands to pull him close by the chain on the swing, one reaching for the back of his neck. When he leans forward, it’s to rest their foreheads together, so close that Louis’ breath puffs hot against his lips, rising through the air. “It’s alright.”

Louis doesn’t have an answer to that, but he does angle closer, pressing his lips to Harry’s. It’s tender and soft, exactly how Harry had imagined their first kiss to be when he was fourteen years old. Just shy of thirty, though, and it flares pure desire within him, not so much a want as a need, his fingertips pressing to the nape of Louis’ neck to draw him in. What started chaste turns sensual in seconds as Harry drags his tongue along Louis’ bottom lip and licks into his mouth, tasting him. If this is all he ever gets, it will haunt Harry every damn day of his existence and he’ll revel in it anyway. He’d rather know that Louis tastes of cigarettes and tea and a hint of mint from the ice cream earlier than not at all.

The kiss breaks with ragged breaths from both of them, escaping and swirling as fog above their heads and into the night. They both stare at one another and pant, something heady evolving between them, and Louis surges forward again, crashing their lips together in a way that should be painful, but just drops Harry’s stomach in a swoop of arousal. Both his hands rise to Louis’ face, cradling his jaw in his palms as he kisses back with heat rocketing up and down his spine, heart thumping wildly in his chest. 

“Come back with me,” Harry mumbles against his lips, using his hands on Louis’ face to pull back just enough. 

Louis’ lips, already red and kiss swollen, part and close. Harry’s preparing himself for a new sting of rejection, but Louis nods in the end and kisses him once more just to prove his decision. 

This time, they both retrace their footprints back to Harry’s home, hand in hand and tucked into his coat pocket to keep them both warm. The house is dark aside from the strings of Christmas lights still on outside and Harry closes the front door quietly behind them, fumbling to strip off his jacket and boots as silently as possible. 

“Remember the top step still creaks,” he whispers to Louis. He tangles their fingers together and leads the way upstairs to his room, feeling devious as he purposely avoids the problem step. 

With the door to his room shut, Harry turns the lamp on in the corner, casting the room in warm light. It plays off Louis’ skin and makes Harry desperate to roll him into bed. But Louis is busy turning in a circle at the foot of the bed, taking in the stack of records and the Fleetwood Mac poster he’d bought for Harry on his 16th birthday still taped to the wall. 

“Hasn’t changed at all in here,” Louis says, taking a step to run his fingers over a couple novels resting on the desk positioned under the window. 

Harry leaves the reason why unspoken. It’s been said enough, he thinks, and he doesn’t want to put focus on the past when their immediate future feels so promising. In the end, Harry tucks his fingers into the waistband of Louis’ track pants, tugging him back towards his bed. They fall together, side by side, and Harry remembers how many times they’ve done this platonically, feeling nothing but gratitude to the universe that tonight is different. Louis doesn’t waste another second before kissing him again, the fire behind it a vow to make up for lost time. 

With Louis in his bed instead of on a frigid swing, Harry feels emboldened to slide his hands up beneath his hoodie and t-shirt, touching skin that he imagines would wash gold in the lamplight. There’s no need to wonder, though, if Louis’ soft gasps are anything to go by, and he uses his wrists and hands to ease each piece of clothing off him, revealing tattoos that are old and new alike. The piece across Louis’ collarbone is particularly striking, the words - _it is what it is -_ hitting him straight in his gut. Harry ducks his head to kiss and suck along his skin, not wanting to miss an inch, while Louis’ hands fist in his hair with a breathy moan, low enough to only be heard by Harry himself. 

“When did you get this?” Harry murmurs. 

Louis takes a moment to answer, trying to understand what Harry’s asking through the haze. “Long time ago. After you left.” 

It hits Harry straight in the chest, but Louis’ leg finds its way around his waist, slotting their hips together as he ruts against him, an attempt at distraction, Harry thinks, that he’s certainly winning. It’s not a shock to feel Louis’ cock half hard through his joggers, but it still makes Harry groan loudly against his chest, his own heartbeat roaring in his ears. Louis hushes him with a breathless laugh, tilting his face down into the top of Harry’s head, and gives his hair a sharp tug to pull him up into another searing kiss. 

It burns through Harry’s body, but it’s nothing compared to Louis’ hands on him as they slip from his hair and down his back, yanking at his hoodie and t-shirt beneath. There’s a desperation to Louis’ hands that Harry can empathize with and as soon as he’s thrown everything to the side, Harry rolls on top of him, caging him in with his arms. He takes a moment just to stare down at him, the way Louis’ eyes are blown with arousal and his lips continue to sink into a deeper shade of red. It’s everything Harry’s ever dreamed about, cheesy as he is, and he slows down just enough in that moment to take a mental picture. Like the keychain he gifted Louis, Harry wants something of his own to take back to New York if this is all he gets. 

Of all the things he thought he’d be doing on his return home, having sex was not one of them. He’s poorly prepared, a true tragedy, in his opinion, with Louis’ looking at him like that, writhing beneath him with impatience. Harry’s still staring and Louis says as much, lifting a hand to his face to push him away, though it’s half hearted and playful.

“Stop looking at me and touch me,” Louis says, his voice high and rasping, short of breath.

Harry can only smile, his hands hooking in Louis’ joggers. “Can’t blame me. You’re gorgeous.”

“ _Shut up_ , stop looking at me, and touch me,” Louis amends, but it’s fond, laughter in his voice.

And well, with specific instruction, Harry really can’t say no. He pulls Louis’ track pants off, throws them somewhere with the rest of their clothes, and drops his head down. His tongue swirls around the head of Louis’ cock and his answering moan is loud enough for Harry to both swallow him down and have mild, fleeting concern about his entire family waking up. The latter thought is gone as soon as it arrives, a sacrifice he’d be willing to make a hundred times over just for this particular opportunity. 

Louis’ hands return to his hair, fisting in bunches as his hips work up in tiny, calculated thrusts. Harry’s slides his hands up Louis’ thighs to his hips to grip tightly, fingers spreading against the small of his back as he pulls him up, encouraging. It’s enough for Louis to lift his head from the pillow, a question hanging in his expression that Harry answers as his mouth slides down another inch and Louis’ cock hits the back of his throat. It makes Harry see stars, his vision whiting out on the edges as he grinds his hips down into the bed for friction.

“Fuck, Harry. What the fuck,” Louis whispers, his stomach jumping with the effort of speaking. “Warn a guy.”

Harry pulls off and wraps a hand around Louis’ cock instead, hips rolling into the bed rhythmically as he says, voice absolutely wrecked to his own ears, “Consider yourself warned.”

Louis can’t even get a reply off, just groans and falls back into the bed as Harry’s head goes down again. Harry’s got nothing but the bed snug against his hips, but he feels like he’s hurtling towards the edge anyway, Louis’ cock snug in his throat overwhelming him. He can feel the way Louis’ body winds tight like a wire, his hand on the back of his head with caution. There’s barely a moment for Harry to react before Louis comes, his moan punctuated as the hand in Harry’s hair flies back and hits the headboard with a dull thud. 

“Fuck! Harry!” he murmurs tightly, voice breaking on Harry’s name.

It’s sensory overload as Harry’s throat flexes to swallow, his hips jerking into the mattress desperately and his answering groan making Louis twitch with sensitivity. Harry pulls off, his face pressed to the crease of Louis’ hip as he breathes him in, intending on getting a hand down his pants and around himself. But, as has always been the truth, Louis knows him better than he knows himself. Louis’ hand moves to rest against the back of his neck as he says, “C’mon, H. Come for me.”

Harry’s orgasm rushes up on him, crashes right through every nerve ending in his body, so raw and real that it doesn’t even matter to him that he’s just come in his pants without being touched. His whole body rises and falls with heavy breaths as he all but heaves for air and it’s only when Louis pulls at his shoulder that he slouches his way up to lay beside him, eye level. 

He blinks slowly, eyes fixating on Louis’ face, the curve of his cheekbone as he smiles, the way he looks utterly fucked out from a blowjob that lasted minutes, but _happy_. He looks happy and that’s what Harry chooses to focus on, his own lips pulling up in an answering smile, lazy, but honest. There’s a part of him that achingly longs for moments like this, always, for the rest of his life, just so he can spend each second that ticks by afterwards staring at Louis.

“You are everything,” Louis whispers to him, reaching out with a hand to trace the bridge of Harry’s nose, the bow of his lips. “You always were to me.”

Harry’s stomach dives and leaps, flipping upside down and riding a wave to his heart at the same time. He’s rendered speechless for a moment as his eyes close, skin alight under Louis’ delicate touch. “I love you, Louis. I’ve always loved you,” he says, his voice quiet and intimate in the little space that exists between their faces.

Louis leans in to kiss him and Harry lets himself be kissed, pliant under his mouth as his heartbeat slows again. He can feel it in his fingertips, in his veins, throbbing with affection for Louis, _always_ Louis. Eventually, after Harry’s lost track of how much time has passed, Louis’ fingers mapping his tattoos and shoulder blades, he gets up to shed his sticky sweatpants and clean himself up in the bathroom. Louis lets him go reluctantly and Harry smiles to himself as he feels his eyes follow him across the room until he disappears from view.

The bathroom lights seem too harsh on his face, his skin, washing him out unattractively, in his opinion. But he notices his mussed hair, his lips kiss swollen, and an easiness in his shoulders that hasn’t been there in years that relaxes him head to toe. He splashes some water on his face, his last attempt at waking up from this fever dream he’s fallen into, and steps back out into the dim glow of his bedroom.

It’s taken Louis just those few minutes to get himself under the covers of Harry’s bed, still naked beneath the sheets rucked around his waist. Harry leans in the doorway just to look one last time, watching Louis breathe peacefully. His face is unguarded, relaxed, and when Harry notices the slow inhale and the steady deflation as he exhales, he knows Louis’ fallen asleep. Harry moves across the room to put the light out, shifting down into the bed as carefully as possible while fitting himself back against Louis’ chest. He may be asleep, but Louis’ arm winds around his waist, draws Harry close until they’re skin to skin and flush together. 

Harry takes advantage of the silence, the comfort of Louis’ measured breathing, to reflect. Days ago when he’d left New York, he dreaded stepping foot in this town, the threat of coming face to face with everything from his past chasing at his heels. There was a part of him that thought as soon as he touched down in Wisconsin, he’d feel the same old repression creeping in like flames licking up a wall. But none of that had happened. He’d built up the monster of Sturgeon Bay only to realize she never existed in the first place. Instead, he’d seen Louis and didn’t combust on the spot. He’d reconnected with his best friends and made a new one too. He stopped running from something that he never needed to in the first place. As he lays there, his mind quiets, eyes closing to the neighborhood light barely filtering in. 

Harry thinks of Louis as he always does, the yearning absent from his heart as it settles for the first time in a decade.


End file.
